


Heavy Is The Heart

by orphan_account



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Car Accidents, Heart Attacks, I'm only adding characters as they come up, M/M, Since I'm more of a go with the flow writer, and relationships are the same way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9524075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It took a moment or two until the statement's meaning really settled in. George felt his upcoming breath get stuck in his throat, and his eyes widened. A sympathetic part of George wanted to apologize to Charlie for asking, to start anew and get to know him in his short stay in the hospital. But the selfish, and overall, larger part of George, wanted to panic. To be removed from the room immediately since this must have truly been the terminal patient's room. Charlie wouldn't have looked at him like that if it wasn't with malicious intent.Rated M for major deaths in the story, and possible mild gore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, and welcome to my humble home. I'd like to nickname it, the "Trouble With Introductory Chapters Thing". I'm sure the chapters following won't be quite as confusing. Don't pay too much attention to the description for now, because it might change in the future, depending on if I take a different path in the story or not. Consider leaving kudos or reviews if you'd like. Enjoy.

“Be careful! He's —“

“George? Are—ight?”

“—ve him a moment.”

His breathing is stable. Eyes shut. He can hear his friends. He thinks they're his friends, at least. He wasn't able to recollect his thoughts, not able to identify what was what. All he focused on was the throbbing pain in his head, surging through his entire body. Except his legs. He couldn't feel his legs. 

There was no more chatter from the people looming over him. His friends. Perhaps he should open his eyes, but he feared the consequences. Whatever this awful migraine was, probably wouldn't appreciate the sudden light. 

But, he didn't appreciate the headache, so he'd peer through his eyelids anyway. Only a bit, though. Just enough to see the faces of his friends. And, the way their face's immediately delved into a world of emotions. Dylan, yes, Dylan. His eyes quickly widened, and he smiled more than he ever remembered him smiling. Jorel seemed to contrast his happiness though. His pupils shook as soon as they grazed his. Eyes puffy and red, and clearly already tear stained. Not that it mattered, since the tear fest began once more.

“George!! Holy shit, you fucking asshole. You scared the shit out of us. You've been out for hours.” Jorel's voice was wracked with grief, even though there was no one to mourn. You were right here, George. Where was here, though? Once more George felt the confusion of not quite remembering what the fuck was going on. He hadn't blacked out, drunk, like he'd wish to assume happened. He knew he didn't, because his hangovers weren't ever this bad. And, never did Jorel of all people, actually care about the effects of a night out drinking. 

“I thought I killed you, dude. You freaked me the fuck out. You better fix yourself,” Jorel spoke with a shudder in his voice. He was clearly nervous, as backed up by the shifting of one foot to the other in place, and him cracking a knuckle every few seconds. Eye contact was most certainly avoided, as Jorel stared at every place in the room except for George and Dylan's gaze. 

Now, George was more lost than ever. What had Jorel done that made him think he could have killed him? He shut his eyes again and shook his head. An attempt at moving his hands up to cover his eyes was made, but his body quickly rejected the suggestion by sending a jolt of pain from his forearms. There was not much he could do but ask, right?

George's eyes met Dylan's, since he felt that Jorel was much too unstable to answer anything normally. “What happened, man?”

He noted the clicking noise that Dylan made before answering, “Don't you remember, man?”

“I don't remember shit. If I did, I wouldn't be asking.”

Dylan put his hands in his pocket and looked around the room, before his eyes stopped on Jorel.  
His face was plagued with a look of guilt. “Jay got you and him into a car crash. Homeboy got out without many injuries but you got straight folded.” Dylan shrugged, as if it would take some of the pressure that now lay on George's chest off. “Had some somewhat major injuries. They didn't really tell us much.”

Dylan, somehow, with that optimistic glow of his, let a chuckle fill the short pause of silence. “The doctors barely let us in here. I gave him 20 bucks to let us in, even if Jorel and I are practically criminals. Fool said that he don't take cash, so I took it back. They let us in after a few minutes of pestering.”

There was those old friends of his. The ones he knew since middle school. But, now they were in the real world. They graduated high school a few years back, and all decided to go into the college life together. It must have been a party that Jorel got drunk out. No, both of them got drunk. George would have drove if he was sober. I guess that's karma for you; don't sober up for your friends, and you'll end up screwed over.

“I think you got a concussion. I'm not doctor, but I mean,” Jorel's eyes shifted nervously around the room, he seemed paranoid, like someone was judging him for whatever he was saying. George knew well enough that he was anxious about him. He was anxious about causing the car crash. Jorel cared about when he hurt someone if they were close to him, but fights with any other dude were another story. “My airbag didn't work on your side. I'm sorry, dude.”

“Bet'cha he tried to murder you on purpose. Even got someone to drive the car into yours.” Dylan's shoulders shuttered as he laughed at his own joke. Jorel added on with a quiet chuckle, and George smiled. It hurt enough to breathe, and he was smart enough to know that laughing would be even worse. 

Before George got hit with a realization he wasn't particularly happy with. It was Jorel's car. Also known as, the only working car that could get them further than 2 miles without breaking down between him and his friends. If he was in this shape, he couldn't imagine how bad the car had it. All the sudden the stress that he had laughed off was back, and a little bit worse, too. “Jorel, dude, what the fuck happened to the car?”

Jorel's face drooped, and now George was able the dark bags below his eyes. He must have stayed up while worrying about something. Worrying about George. “It got smashed up pretty bad. Honestly, I tried not to look at the damage. But, from memory, I can go ahead and say that it's not going to be working again any time soon.” 

As George was about to throw his head back and groan in distress, a young looking doctor, male, walked in, and squinted at his friends. “Visiting hours are over. We announced that over the intercoms already.”

George didn't recall any announcement being made, so now he assumed that happened before he had woken up. Actually, now that he thought about it, he didn't even know how long he'd been asleep, since he didn't know when he fell asleep. Maybe he was passed out his entire time to the hospital, and didn't wake up until now. Strange, it seemed a little scary now that he imagined what could have happened in that time. 

Returning to reality, he noticed that Jorel and Dylan were walking out; Jorel with a pinch of guilt but Dylan looking proud as the day is long. Dylan let out an enthusiastic, a little bit too much so, wave, while Jorel simply looked back and nodded his head towards George, before they left the room, as well as the doctor. 

Now that George had a bit more peace to examine his room without the lovely addition of his friends, he noticed just how polished everything seemed. It was almost so perfect that it made him hate it more. How could they make the place that so many people have died, or watched people they care about die, or simply go in with a major injury look so ideal? It was a place representing hurt. Not a place to deem flawless.

The subtle beating of the heart monitor began to fill George's head, and now it was all he could hear. That is, until he picked up on another beeping, that didn't line up with the one he thought he was focusing on. There was another monitor, beating slower than his. Much, much slower, at a pace that he wouldn't think was healthy for the average person. It had to be true, since George knew, or at least thought, that he was an average person, and clearly their heartbeats weren't all that similar. Following the wires with his eyes, they lead up to a man that was placed on the bed on the other side of the room, parallel to his.

The man he saw had a small, round face. His eyes were relaxed under his shut eyelids, which fluttered every so often. He had the subtle undertone of stubble from a beard that was trying to make way. It looked like it had only been a day or two since he last shaved. But, in front of his mouth and nose was an oxygen mask, or what he assumed was an oxygen mask. What else would they have a mask for? George noticed that his lips were slightly parted to get more air, even while not conscious. His hair went down to the bottom of his neck, and was a tad bit greasy. He must have used gel to keep it up when he's awake. His arms were neatly folded across his chest. It looked like he was getting ready to be put into a casket, which left George with a high amount of unease. 

His heartbeat was still alive and well, though. George couldn't quite understand what was wrong with this kid, though. He looked pale and unresponsive, despite the beauty of him while he slept. No, not beauty. Maybe it was just charm, an aura that gave off that bit of comfort. Maybe he should go wake him up? No, that'd be a bad first impression. You can't just wake a stranger up when it could be the first sleep they were getting in weeks! Irritated by the lack of social skills, George pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned. “Why me?”

Just as he was getting ready to return neutral and possibly take a nap himself, he heard a chortle from his left. Much to his surprise, it was the man, the same one that he could have sworn was sleeping less than a few minutes before. 

“You seem a little mad, man. Don't be,” the boy had one eye, the one closest to George, open and focused. From the one eye he could see, George already could confirm that this man was definitely handsome. No, he's not gay. He can easily admit that another man is beautiful if it's true. The eye was an alluring sky blue, almost an addicting color on its own, not even including his other rather pretty features. “I'm Charlie. It's been a while since I've seen someone my age here.”

George felt questions fill his mind as he stared at that man. Charlie, as he called himself. Why would someone who looked in such good shape be here in the hospital? Or maybe, how did he look so fine when he had more IV's than George could count without getting queasy on his arm? He tried thinking about the reasons he would need all that medicine, but just the sight of all those tubes and wires was starting to make George's stomach turn. 

Most likely noticing how sick George looked, Charlie feigned hurt, putting a hand to his heart and closing both eyes now. “I'm not that ugly, am I? I guess I should have dressed up better for our meet up.” 

He had to admit, that was rather funny. Instead of staying entranced by the medication and hospital ware, he tried to laugh off that feeling of curiosity with the young man. “No. It's not that. You're not ugly.”

“Oh, are you flirting?” Charlie winked.

George was already a bit uncomfortable again. What was this kid's game? He was only put in the same room of him in the hospital a few hours ago, and he already was acting like they've known each other for years. He was joking like that as if it was nothing. Or maybe George was just a fun killer.

“No. I'm not even complimenting you,” George sneered. “I'm just not insulting you.”

Charlie seemed to continue to register it as flirting, George could almost feel his ego inflating. He wore a smirk and raised his eyebrows just to add onto his egotistical behavior. Instead of staring at his face, which almost made George wonder if he looked half as stupid when he smirked, he once again let his eyes trail to his wrists. They looked purple with bruises and marks, as if they had have many more IV's there before. Once again, the sight started nauseating him. Charlie must have been in the hospital a long time if he was already probed and prodded with so much. 

Unfortunately, Charlie must have caught him staring, as he was now leaning slightly off the bed, waving his hand in Johnny's face. “Uh, you might want to tell the doctor about the fact that you can't ever keep your eyes to yourself.”

Holding back the urge to haul out and scream at the man for his ignorance, George resorted to curling his fingers into a fist and averting his eyes. “No, I just wanted to know...”

“Know why I look like a punching bag?” 

He had to give it to Charlie, that was one way to put it.

“Why am I here? Is this where the.. dying people go?”

Charlie hooted, but his brows furrowed, as if he was laughing at an awful joke. “That's hospcist.”

“That's what?” George cocked his head.

“Hospcist, racist but for people in the hospital. Like assuming everyone with cancer is a bald old man, or that everyone with an oxygen mask has asthma, or everyone with a faulty heartbeat or lots of IV's is dying,” Charlie paused to gaze past George's eyes, as if he was looking at his soul instead. “But, sometimes those stereotypes are right.”


End file.
